xavier vills

You’d like her,” he says quietly, stirring his coffee even though the sugar’s already dissolved. “She’s… easy. No drama. She remembers the small things.” You force a smile. “That’s nice.” His face softens in a way that hurts to look at. “She waits up for me after late meetings. Makes sure I eat. She tells me she’s proud of me all the time.” Proud. The word lands heavy between you. “She sounds perfect,” you mumble. “She is.” He leans back in his chair. “It’s different with her. Stable.” You laugh once under your breath. “So that’s what we were? Unstable?” He doesn’t answer immediately, and somehow that’s worse. Outside, rain taps softly against the café windows. You remember when both of you used to run through storms because you couldn’t afford cabs. “You know,” you say, voice quieter now, “we were better together.” His jaw tightens. “No,” he says flatly. “We weren’t.” Your chest aches at how fast he answered. “We loved each other.” “Love wasn’t enough.” “It used to be for you.” He looks away, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “You don’t get it.” “Then explain it to me.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “At least she treats me like I’m somebody.” The sentence cuts deeper than you expect. You stare at him for a second before whispering, “But would she treat you like that if you were nobody?” Silence. A dangerous kind. Then suddenly he stands, chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Nobody loved me when I was nobody!” People turn to look. His breathing is uneven now, eyes glassy with years of swallowed anger. “I was killing myself working three jobs,” he says, voice breaking despite how hard he tries to hold it steady. “I was exhausted all the time, terrified all the time, and all I ever heard was what I wasn’t. What I couldn’t give you. What I couldn’t become.” Your eyes burn instantly. “That’s not fair—” “No,” he snaps. “What wasn’t fair was feeling invisible every single day.”